


1000 Kisses

by Wanna_be_goodr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1000 kisses, Baking, Crowley's self hatred, Cute, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Little bit of angst, M/M, Not much tho, allusions to sex, not much so not rated smut cos it's just two references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanna_be_goodr/pseuds/Wanna_be_goodr
Summary: Aziraphale has been COUNTING his kisses with Crowley and tries to make him something to celebrate... what could go wrong??!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	1000 Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Ineffable nonsense as usual. Hope you enjoy!

“Welcome home, my dear!”

Crowley hasn’t even taken two steps into his flat when Aziraphale calls out to him. He grins, feeling slightly better about miracle-ing himself to his front door the minute he left the bank in his haste to see his angel again. He’d even rushed his job, and Somebody knows how much he loves bringing down computer servers in banks.

So, they were both equally besotted. Obvious to anyone but these two, naturally.

As Crowley slinks into the kitchen, he is shocked by the sight he sees before him. Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, is surrounded by cake tins, some smoking, some full of a black, sooty gloop. He has butter on his nose, and sugar and flour over his exposed forearms. His platinum curls are in disarray and his cheeks are rosy. 

Bloody Heaven, he’s adorable. And perfect. And sexy…

“… and then, you see, the batter has to be at a particular temperature, and I simply can’t understand why some of these are liquid and some are powder, Crowley, and I – Are you listening, dear?”

“Hmm? Y- yes, yes of course Angel, oven too hot, oven too cold, mess everywhere… Sorry, what are you actually… y’know… doing?

Aziraphale suddenly looks sheepish, and mumbles, “Well, it’s just that… I wanted to make you something, dear, to celebrate…”

Crowley doesn’t know what the angel wants to celebrate. He is a terrible partner! How can he not know? Oh, Someone, no – he can’t have forgotten an anniversary, can he? No, they haven’t been together for a year yet, that’ll be in a few months… So, what is it?

“Celebrate, Angel?”

“Oh, you’ll think me a fool, Crowley! Well, I simply… It’s that, well… You see, I can’t be too sure of the actual number, but… This morning, before you left, well, we kissed and… it was our thousandth.”

It takes Crowley a while to catch on to what Aziraphale means, but then it hits him. This physical embodiment of perfection, this beautiful manifestation of the only good parts of heaven, this eternal being has been counting how many times he and his demon boyfriend have kissed. He made a mental note every single time. He remembered. How? How had he counted them all? How did Crowley not know too? Was this something humans did in relationships? Should he have known, have bought Aziraphale something – a card, a present?

How can Aziraphale possibly love Crowley enough to count each kiss? How can Crowley be loved at all? Why does Aziraphale dote on him like this? He doesn’t deserve anything, let alone a love this pure, this strong, this devoted.

But Aziraphale does love him. He is so loved, he thinks he can feel it sometimes, radiating off his angel. It’s warm, and comforting, but not smothering or overwhelming. It’s like coming home, except Crowley’s never really had one of those before. Neither has Aziraphale. Maybe that’s why they are so inexplicably and ineffably made for each other.

Aziraphale is talking again, gesturing with his hands and sending a cloud of flour to the floor. “As I say, I can’t be completely sure that I am correct, I don’t quite know if some moments were one kiss that lasted for a while, or multiple kisses in a sort of series, and of course there are others that led to… well, more…” The angel’s cheeks have coloured again, flushing such a gorgeous shade of pink it’s all Crowley can do to control the ferocity of his next kiss. He plants his hands on those deliciously warm cheeks, breathes in the homely scent of Aziraphale and baking, and tastes the sweetness of the batter Aziraphale has failed to make into a fully-fledged cake (but has, obviously, sampled. Extensively). Crowley could kiss Aziraphale for days on end, which is good really, because they do have the rest of time to kiss… and learn how to bake. Crowley’s previously untouched oven starts billowing grey smoke, and the breathless immortal beings break apart.

Once the window is opened and the offending scorched cake rubble is scraped into the bin, Aziraphale sighs heavily. “I so wanted to get this right, Crowley… I wanted to make it like the human bakers do. They do make ever such lovely cakes and pastries and tarts and pies…” 

Crowley can tell he’s losing Aziraphale to his food fantasies, and he reaches for the angel’s hand.

“Look, you didn’t have to do this. It’s a nice idea, really it is, but you can’t cook. I’m sorry, Angel. Let’s go to the bakery that makes those eclairs you love, hm?”

But the angel won’t be moved, not even with the temptation of eclairs. His face is set in determined stoicism.

“No. I WILL make this cake. Oh, you can help me! Oh, please, Crowley!”

The angel’s face has completely lit up, and Crowley simply can’t deny him. So, they begin to attempt a Victoria Sponge – the perfect cake for beginners, according to the Mary Berry book Crowley secretly manifests while Aziraphale isn’t looking. After gently explaining to his angelic boyfriend that there needs to be a recipe, so the ingredients work in the right orders and amounts, they start weighing sugar, butter and flour, cracking eggs and mixing batter. They split the batter over two miraculously brand-new baking tins, set a proper temperature on the oven, and start a timer Crowley has never seen before, despite it coming from one of his kitchen drawers.

Once they have managed to clean up the mess Aziraphale made with his previous attempts (“Without miracles, please, my dear! This is how the humans do it!”), the cakes are ready. They remove the tins from the oven and leave them to cool, Aziraphale practically salivating at the smell and sight of the magically golden-brown sponges. After they are cool, Aziraphale produces some jam and cream from the fridge, revealing that he had bought them the day before. This admission from his angel, that he planned this surprise especially for him, almost sends Crowley over the edge, but he keeps himself calm by taking in the full glory of Aziraphale, shirtsleeves rolled up, sweater vest removed, cream apron covering his shirt, ready for baking action. 

With the sponges sandwiched together, Crowley takes a knife and moves to cut a slice, but Aziraphale stops him and orders him out of the room. A faintly bemused Crowley follows the instruction and waits impatiently until his angel tells him to come back in. When Crowley enters the kitchen, the cake is on the table with a bottle of champagne and two flutes. As he nears the table where an excited Aziraphale barely manages to sit still, Crowley realises that the cake has been iced. The cake now reads:

‘1000 kisses – here’s to 1000 more! I love you xxx’

In shaky pearl blue writing icing. Crowley’s throat closes, and he tries so hard to swallow he thinks he might suffocate. The love is just so much. All of the time. He needs it, he knows he needs it to heal, to start to love himself, but sometimes he just can’t take every single perfect, thoughtful action of Aziraphale’s.

Somehow, though, he forces the lump in his throat away, looks into his angel’s face, and feels secure, grounded, safe. He sits down and grins at his fellow baker.

“Go on, I know you’re dying to try a piece. You can cut it,” and Aziraphale glows. The minute his oceanic eyes are on the cake and not Crowley, the demon speaks, “I love you, Aziraphale. You’re perfect, and I love you. This is – this is just so Good. If I could articulate to you how much this means, how much you matter, how thoughtful you are… I’d never stop telling you. I wish I was better at this stuff, you deserve better, Angel. I’m sorry, I just – I don’t deserve you.”

Aziraphale looks up from the slices he’s cut, and stares directly into Crowley’s dark and tortured soul.

“Nonsense. Stop it, I won’t here of this again. You are a good person at heart Crowley, and therefore you deserve love. I have so much to give, please, darling, let me give it to you. I need to love you. For so long, you were there for me, supportive and angry and hurt for me when I needed it. Please let me show you that you, of all people, angels, and demons, deserve love. You need it, and I need to share it. Let’s do that for… well, for the next 1000 kisses?”

“Ngk – Y-yes. Please. I’d like that, Angel. Thank you.”

The demon’s voice breaks as he tries to reply to Aziraphale’s absolute faith and commitment to him. He struggles. So, he takes a plate and a fork (of unknown origin – he really needs to acquaint himself with his kitchen) and digs into a bite of… actually pretty good quality cake.

The noises Aziraphale makes when he eats have always been a delight and dilemma for Crowley, but he is convinced the angle hams his moans up even more than usual just to tease his demon. And as a demonic representative on earth, with the personal training of Satan himself, Crowley simply won’t stand for teasing. He’ll make the angel pay… in a way they’ll both enjoy even more than the Victoria Sponge.


End file.
